


love's about to change my heart

by ladygagasbitchben



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Boy x boy, BoyxBoy, Crime, Fluff, Gay, Lady GaGa - Freeform, M/M, Plotting, Rescue, School, Slash, Smut, The Wanted - Freeform, horlik, larry stylinson - Freeform, little mix - Freeform, lonely!louis, lourry, paternal handjobs, the vamps - Freeform, what else do i put this is silly, yay lol, zarry - Freeform, ziall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:40:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygagasbitchben/pseuds/ladygagasbitchben
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eradicate! is a murdering, government based organisation that has a few recognisable people working for them. But when Harry receives his sixth job, can he go through with killing Louis?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey hey. Idek where i got this idea from... still i think it should be a good read. Wanted Gaga in this because i am a hau. Oh and i cant tell the different between past and present tense. Want Ziall because i am so niche...

Eradicate! isn’t a government-based organisation designed to kill people living on their own in really big houses so bigger families could replace them. Well, it is, but that’s a secret. It also may or may not be run by none other than the not-so infamous Mr. Cowell, a Simon, who actually isn’t known to the British public – or any other public, for that matter. Not even all of the government know about it, bizarrely enough; no, David Cameron was notified before he became prime minister, and yes, it was a shock to him, but in order to keep his place at Downing Street he has had to accept it.  
Eradicate! didn’t kill people over the age of 50. Anyone under that with a perfectly well functioning body, living in a house worth over £450,000, is to be killed. Not brutally, mind you, no; the workers are sent in to break in to the house at three in the morning and slip some cyanide in to a place where the person is most likely to drink from, like the bottom of the kettle, or a few glasses. The deadly substance is transparent, and closes up the gullet, killing the opponent in thirty seconds flat. The reason why people aren’t killed over fifty is because either they are widowed and have lots of family constantly around, or because they actually have paid off the mortgage. Aside from this fact, no one, no matter how forced they are, would have the heart to tip off an OAP.  
These people do not have families. Simon’s PA and office worker, Nick Grimshaw, looks up information on the person, sees everything logged on the person, locates the whereabouts of the person’s family. Therefore, nobody wonders why the person has gone missing, and Sky news and other major news companies are paid off to say nothing about, so the police are rendered useless.  
And so you may be wondering where people get employed from. Yes, it’s a valid point – Mr. Cowell can’t exactly put up posters reading ‘HIT MEN WANTED’ around the streets of London. No; the workers aren’t employed.  
They are kidnapped.  
Shrewd, intelligent teenagers who have finished their A-levels and received all A*s are kidnapped from their homes by other workers and are drugged to sleep. When they wake up, they would be in a completely new environment, sharing a room with two single beds in a fancy apartment with a fellow newbie. The apartment is in a swanky, tall building which blends in with other London buildings. The building doesn’t have a website or a name – or a front entrance – and so people do not talk about it. The workers and bosses call this building the ‘Base’.  
The workers are extremely well looked after. After being kidnapped, a letter is posted through their freshly re-painted door, telling them to meet in the Barnden hall. Attached is a map of how to get their, and once they are in there Mr. Cowell himself would introduce himself, Nick Grimshaw and the head and assistant head boys and girls.  
And this is the point where Harry Styles got to with his new roommate, Zayn, two years ago.  
“You have been chosen as the cleverest bunch of the British public of your age, so I believe a congratulations are in order.” Mr. Cowell had stepped down from the podium and, along with Nick and the over-enthusiastic heads and assistant head boys and girls, given the crowd of around fifteen a long and painfully awkward clap. Harry had half expected to hear a cricket chirp. He’d shared a frown with Zayn at that point. “Now,” Cowell’d stepped up on to the podium already, “listen.” And with a deadly set face, his tone switched borderline terrifying, “we are a government based organisation, so before I go on, I mean it when I say that you are safe. Your families have already been told why you are here, what’s going to happen and when you’ll get back.” After this, the crowd of fifteen had turned round to each other and murmured in an indecipherable mutter. “Quiet,” Cowell declared, “you will be part of Eradicate! until you are twenty-one, where you will be free to live your life with a job found for you by the government. But until then, you are under our control. Eradicate!’s aim is improve the cost of living crisis in England. By doing this, the government must not constantly shell out money to build more expensive houses only for young, rich individuals to occupy for the rest of their lives, when a grand family of even twelve could live there instead. Do you understand so far?” He’d raised his eyebrows expectantly at the audience, who all nodded meekly. Harry looked around at that point: people were shifting awkwardly in their space, unsure of where this was headed. “Good,” Cowell had interrupted Harry’s thoughts, “so you do understand why such necessities must be done to ensure improvement. These necessities are extreme. They involve committing the most injustice crime of all. Murder.” Cowell continued, rather casually, to room full of sharp gasps and teenagers covering their mouths in withheld fear. “Yes, yes. Murder. Get used to the word. Now, you may think that we are bluffing, that we actually are a murdering company that have nothing to do with the government. Fair enough. That’s why we picked you lot out – but here is labour MP Ed Milliband to further elaborate.” And as the tall, handsome MP stepped on to the stage, Harry, and a few other people who had obviously taken law or politics in college, visibly relaxed at the sight of a well known and respected figure. Ed cleared his throat, tapped his fingertips on each side of the podium and gave the crescent shaped crowd a sympathetic furrow of his brow before speaking.  
“Do not panic,” he’d spoken softly, Harry would distinctively remember, but at the time it was somewhat irrelevant, “I have been aware of this organisation for eleven years now and since I have funded it I have become attached to all of our workers. You are, as Simon previously said, the brightest bunch of them all, and so we can rely on you to do a good job. And I’m not prepared to lie, here, we also chose you guys because you could easily suss us out.” He gave a small grin which no one returned. “Now, do not get it in to your heads that you will be brutally murdering people every week. No; you will be thoroughly trained for a year, when the other people your age are retaking failed courses, to break in to people’s houses. You will then deposit some cyanide in to a place where people either drink or make drinks, like a kettle or a cup. The cyanide is transparent, so therefore they would not notice. However, for the people who do actually rinse their cups and kettles before they drink – hardly anyone – we would send in an undercover agent, posing as a salesperson, to check if the person is still alive. But you don’t have to worry about that. You go in the house, slip in the cyanide and leave. Simple as that.  
“Do not worry about the police,” Ed continued, “all authorities are under control. Again, you do not need to worry about any of that stuff. But we wouldn’t want to leave you in the dark, so if you really want to know about any of ‘that stuff’, feel free to ask. But for now, are there any other questions?” Harry remembered looking round at that point, face turning incredulous as a girl with a big bust and big red curly hair rose her arm shakily, to which Ed raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Yes?”  
“H-huh-huh-how many times do we have to k-kuh-”  
“It depends how many jobs need doing. You have five year groups above you, and as you progress you will do more jobs per year. Usually, your average second year – the first year when you start actually breaking in to houses, i.e. a year from now – would kill around four, five people a year.” After Ed had said this, the room visibly relaxed. “Back to Simon for one last talk.”  
“Thanks, Ed,” Simon winked at Ed as they switched positions, “you will not talk about this to the general public. Your families have been sworn to secrecy, too. You are not to leave the premises without signing off and you will not back out of a job. Training starts on the 19th of September – two weeks tomorrow – and until then you are given time to settle in, get used to things a bit and make friends. Breakfast is at 8am sharpish, but being the bright lot that you are we are sure you are used to early mornings anyway. Lunch will be served at 12.30pm and dinner at 6.30pm. Breakfast and lunch will be served in here, the Barnden Hall, whilst dinner will be served in the Lautus hall, located on the right of your maps.  
“Right. This is it people. You are free to do anything you want that is above the law and rules, so off you go.” Mr Cowell nodded, then left down the side of the stage along with Nick, heads and assistant head boys and girls and Ed, and that was the last Harry would see of them in two years.

*

“What the fuck is this?!” Zayn stormed in to his and Harry’s room, fisting bunches of his dark brown quiff in his hands. Harry had watched him kick the metal railing of the bed frame before sitting on the mattress itself, tucked away in the corner of the living area. Harry sat on his own bed a metre and a half across it, admiring Zayn’s aggressiveness with a smirk.  
“I know.” Harry replied with his own northern accent, “but we just have to go with it. There’s no going back.”  
“And how are you so calm about this?”  
Harry shrugged. “As long as my family’s safe. It could be a lot worse if you think about it.”  
And then a knock at the door. Harry raised his eyebrows as a girl peeped in, “sorry, the door was ajar. We’re all meeting in Barnden right now to get to know each other.” And with a smile, she withdrew. Harry gave Zayn a defeated look, before sighing and getting up.  
“C’mon. We need friends to get through this, don’t we?” Harry also remembered offering Zayn his hand, which Zayn almost reluctantly took and used to haul himself up.

*

There were nice enough people there. Four girls were glued to each other’s sides – Jesy, Perrie, Jade and Leigh-Anne – and also four boys were equally as close – George, JJ, Jaymi and Josh. A girl was sat on her own, called Stefani, who came across as very eccentric – she was wearing a coconut bra and seaweed skirt – and asked people to refer to her as ‘Gaga’. She had moved to England the year before over from New York. This left two other boys, turning out to be Harry’s and Zayn’s next door neighbours, called Liam and Niall to join the former two to make a group. It was simply fascinating; they hadn’t even met each other, and the groups they would be in for the next five years were supposedly set in stone. And they were.

*

Now, two years on, Harry, Zayn, Niall and Liam have not only gotten over puberty and developed in to squeaky clean and smooth-skinned eighteen year olds, but also everyone has settled down, accepting their job and getting on with life. Harry has done four jobs so far – the same as everyone else, except Gaga who has done eight. Each ‘job done’ earns three thousand pounds, on top of a weekly pocket money of twenty pounds.  
Harry found himself a nervous, shaking wreck on his first job. He knows exactly what to do – even back in his first job, which was last January, four months after training. But the actual fear of being caught, fear of knowing that he will kill this person was absolutely terrifying. But now, after doing five, he has learned to accept it and goes about it in a very relaxed manner. He doesn’t think about it too much – I mean, what is there to think about? He does it or his family die. Simple as. And it’s not like he can call the police – who would they incline to believe? A bunch of kids or the higher authorities?  
An unspoken rule, also, is that relationships from the outside are not allowed. Harry did want – wants¬ – a relationship. Preferably Zayn, but Harry doesn’t think he’s gay. Hm.  
Harry is snapped out of his thoughts when he is in the library and a couple of long fingers create to loud flicks above him. He looks up, and there, right there, a man who he hadn’t seen in just over two years, Mr. Cowell.  
“Styles,” he says, as Harry immediately snaps his Harry Potter book shut and stands up sharply.  
“Sir.”  
“Follow me.” And so he does. Harry trails Simon through the compound, walking past a group of friends who whistle lowly and mutter, “woah, that boy’s in the shit.” And with that, Harry’s adam’s apple seems to blow up and block his throat and his heart hammers loudly in his ears and chest – is he going to die? His mother, Anne, his sister, Gemma and his step-dad, Robin... are they going to die? Or... are they already dead? Maybe Simon has their severed necks stuck up on pikes in his office- “Jesus Christ, Harry, sit down.” Simon suddenly says softly, and he is sitting in his leather wheely chair and already pouring out a couple of whiskies in a couple of gleaming glasses. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Here,” Simon hands Harry a glass, and Harry doesn’t drink whisky, much prefers the softer taste of vodka or rum, but he takes it with a weak smile anyway, swirling it around as Simon empties his own. “C’mon, boy, drink up.” Simon smacks the desk in front of him then, and Harry looks down at the coffee coloured liquid which seems to be teasing him. Nonetheless, he raises it to his lips and tips the contents in to his mouth, swallowing before the burning freezing liquid burn freezes his mouth. Too much. But seemingly enough to make Harry screw up his face, as Simon lets out a loud laugh that sounds genuine and somewhat patronises Harry. “Harry,” he says after flicking away a single tear under his eye, “do you have any idea why you are here?”  
“No sir.” Harry replies politely after a few seconds, not answering straight away as he didn’t want to come across as snappy.  
“Hm. Well, your mission controller, Ben, is on holiday in Australia at the moment, so I’m going to be briefing your next job. Which is tomorrow. Lucky for some, eh?” Simon says all in an outward breath, and Harry can’t control letting out a laugh through his grin. Hahaha, that was funny. He only laughed because the whole thing was a bloody juxtaposition – the image of his mission controller drinking a Pina Colada in some sunny beach, whilst he is stuck here until he is 21. Simon seemed to have understood, though, as he smiles too. “Yes, yes. Well, here you are.” Harry is handed the dreaded brown envelope, which reads in red stamped ink at the front: ‘PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION NOT TO BE LEAKED. PERISH AFTER USE.’ And this is known as ‘the stamp’. When Harry went away with his first envelope, everyone muttered around him ‘has he got the stamp?’ and ‘poor kid’. So Harry picked it up and uses it and passes it along to lower year groups to this day. When Harry opens the envelope and pulls out the letter, under the repeated message on the front of the envelope is his mission brief, which he reads whilst Simon watches him judgingly:

LOCATION: DONCASTER, NORTH-WESTERN ENGLAND  
VALUE OF PROPERTY: £610,000  
OCCUPANT(S): 1  
NAME OF OCCUPANT(S): TOMLINSON, LOUIS WILLIAM  
AGE OF OCCUPANT(S): 21

Harry looks up to Simon as something weird goes off in his chest, as Simon nods encouragingly at him and pours out another two whiskies.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah sorry i don't check my work for spelling mistakes
> 
> if there's anyone out there
> 
> heheh

Harry doesn't sleep that night. Every now and then (more like every minute) he turns round in his cotton bed and curses. It happens every night before a job - especially the first. Harry remembers the orangey fire clouds arise before he had gotten to sleep, that night (morning). But... this job. This guy. He's twenty one. The youngest Harry's ever killed is 32, and they are usually quick and meaningless. But this one's different. The picture of the guy... Louis William Tomlinson...

He is drop-dead gorgeous.

Well, he will be, Harry thinks, then his heart pangs as he feels disgusted in himself at the twisted pun.

It's about one when Zayn gets fed up of Harry's tossing and turning, and he hisses, "shut the fuck up, will you?"

"Sorry." Harry mutters without much care.

After a long silence, Zayn pipes up again, "so are the rumours true? Where is it - who is it?"

"Some hot guy from Doncaster." Harry blurts without thinking, then immediately covers his mouth in the darkness and wow, he's never actually told Zayn that he is gay.

"What? Did you say hot-"

"Guy, yes Zayn, guy." Harry doesn't really care - his thoughts are elsewhere.

"That - er-"

"A problem?"

"No, naah, no way man," Zayn quickly backtracks, putting on a casual tone. That Harry can easily see through.

"Good."

After another pause, Zayn is once again the one to break the awkward tension, "so... is it, like, you know, just guys you into, bro, or do you like, swing both ways, like-"

"Oh give me a break, Zayn. I hate vagina and tits and love dick. That what you wanna hear?" Harry snaps, some (most) of his stress getting the better of him.

Zayn understands though. He really does. "Bro, look... I don't really give a shit if you're bent, straight or just fucking wonky," he says, and Harry snorts. "It ain't gonna change our... you know,"

"Our what?" Harry smirks. He knows what Zayn means, he just want to hear the raven boy say it out loud.

"Our friendship."

Harry gets to sleep ten minutes later.

Technically Harry's job isn't until tomorrow, because he has to get there by 3am. Well, he thinks this until a certain someone interrupts him halfway through an enjoyable breakfast natter with his friends.

"So you're actually gay, Harry?" Jesy asks, slightly aghast with her mouth set in an almost perfect 'o'. Perrie merely licks her chocolaty fingers - and Harry swears it was aimed at the quiffed boy next to him - and says casually, "its not a surprise, babe."

"How?" Harry says, eyebrows knitting together. How can someone tell he is gay?

"Well," Perrie then wipes her fingers on her tissue and leans forward on folded arms on the set one of the tables set out in the Barnden hall, "you're just... soft, like. I don't think you could handle the pressure of a girl, you'd be much better off looked after in a guy's hands."

"That's discrimination." Zayn raises his eyebrows playfully at her as Harry comprehends Perrie's words. A light pink tinge singes Perrie's face as she backs away slightly.

"You know - Zayn, Harry, I didn't mean it like that- you know that, Harry?" Perrie stutters helplessly.

"Naah, he's fine," Niall is suddenly next to them and clapping the curly boy's back, with a tray stacked full of pain au chocolates and cereals and nut bars and crossaints and some weird thing Harry doesn't want to go in to. It was oozing green stuff. Liam is next to him with an orange juice.

Some contrast.

"Niall, it's rude to just interrupt like that. Uh, hi guys." Liam looks up briefly before flicking his eyes back down to Niall's food, "Jesus Christ Ni, how are you not clinically obese?" But Niall waves him off, pretty much plunging his face in to a bowl of cereal. Harry thinks this is a strange turn on.

"So you think I'm gay because I am weak?" Harry asks Perrie in genuine amazement.

"Styles, I am sure this lovely ladies do not want to hear stories of your homosexuality." Simon is suddenly behind Harry, voice strong and defiant. Harry's ears burn. Where the fuck where all these people coming from?!

"No, sir." Harry says anyway. Simon walks round the six seater table and gestures for Harry to follow, who does so with a violent shade of magenta burned on his face. The last thing he hears are Jesy and Perrie's giggles followed by an 'unlucky mate' from Niall.

"All our transport is fully booked from 1:30am, which is when you are scheduled to leave, yes?" Simon's nursing another whisky but this time he doesn't offer Harry any.

"Yes, sir." Harry answers dutifully.

"The job cannot be put off any longer. It will have to be done tonight, no doubt about it. So you will be met at reception at 11 by Eleanor who can ring one of our white vans up." Simon says, before emptying his glass and slightly wincing whilst he pours another. Harry wonders how many he gets through a day as it's only half-eight.

"Okay. That's fine. Thank you sir," Harry offers half a smile before standing up to leave. Before he turns the handle though, Simon quickly tells him, "good luck, Harry."

Harry looks at the timetable tacked up on his and Zayn's wall. It has a list of all tutors coming in throughout each day; not that they don't know half the stuff the tutor is on about already, just that most of the teens (or adults, now) get bored really easily, and having classes gets them through the day.

10:00 - Business

12:00 - Mechanical Mathematics

14:00 - Saxophone

16:00 - Law

18:00 - JUST ONE HOUR - English Literature

19:00 - JUST ONE HOUR - English Language

20:00 - Biology

22:00 - Late catch up

Well, that's the rest of Harry's day sorted then.

Louis Tomlinson is sitting on his red leather couch, sipping tea and watching a recorded episode of Coronation Street. He's been on this fucking chair all day - he thinks there ought to be an outline of his body etched in to it. Nonetheless, he sinks further in to it as the scolding hot, bitter taste of strong tea journeys down his throat. He momentarily closes his eyes, savouring the moment; tea is his favourite thing. Ever.

He glances down at his iPhone 5S as the theme tune signals the adverts. No texts. In fact, the last text he has received was eight days ago, from his network provider. He sighs; out of his nine contacts, no one has bothered to text him.

He is a lonely man. Boy. Very lonely. His father died in a car crash and his mother couldn't cope with the stress so she legged it. Louis still has her phone number - four numbers, in fact, as he once desperately ran around her friends demanding numbers, all of which turned out fake.

But he likes the numbers. They make him feel closer to mum (it makes it look like has more contacts).

His four sisters and he had appealed to stay with Louis, but then grandma took them away ("for the better,") and Louis hasn't seen them since.

So. That's how a family of seven has sadly fizzled to one. And that's how that 'one' inherited everything. House, cars, kettle, even the fucking trampoline in the backyard.

"Fuck sake." Louis mutters, "I need a cat." He sips more tea, relishing the burn. He needs more. He needs...

Some action. "Fuck it," Louis curses once more. He switches his mounted plasma TV off, before leaning forward to place his mug down on the small yet expensive glass table in front of him and standing up from the sofa with a sticky leather noise, which Louis cringes at. "I need some action," he voices his thoughts.

Action; something Louis hasn't had in the sad, pathetic 21 years of his life. Not so good ol' virgo intacto.

Leaving behind his best friend, in the form of a pint-sized 'I HEART TEA' mug, Louis exits the lounge through his gleaming white door, which leads him into his hallway and staircase. He trots up them with somesort of effort, knowing which steps to avoid because of the creaks. How sad.

He turns to his immediate right at the top of the stairs, entering his bright white and practically grinning bathroom. Louis cleans it every other day - like the other eleven grande rooms in this house - to keep himself occupied. And gives him an excuse not to go out.

Louis closes the door behind him, locks it and bolts it. He doesn't know why; well, he does really, it's because Fozzy and Pheobs always used to walk in on him whilst he was in the shower. Or on the toilet. Or... yeah.

He unbuttons red polo neck before realising his green and red Christmas jumper must come off first. So it does; there is a hiss of fabric and whoosh of air before the reindeer and snowman patterned clothing is clashing against the brilliant white of his bathroom tiles. Louis thinks white tiles, white bath, white shower and white walls are kind of sickening, but mum liked them so so does Louis.

"Why am I wearing a Christmas jumper in January?" Louis asks allowed, "because you're stupid." He answers himself dutifully.

Now that the whole jumper thing is out the way, Louis pulls the collar of his polo neck up and over his head, tossing it down next to the jumper. He turns the knob next to the entrance of the walk-in shower round and round until there are four shower heads spraying out already steaming liquid in a row. He quickly tangles his way out of his soft tracksuit bottoms and underwear before diving in head first, hands coming up to expose all angles to powerful hot spray.

After wetting every known part of his body, he turns round and puts his hand under the penis soap dispenser he bought two months ago. The shampoo comes (literally) out of the penis head by sensor and because it's white it looks realistic. Louis almost doesn't apply it to his soft brown locks but, who really gives a shit?

He works his fingertips in to his scalp, slowly and somewhat tantalizingly, before rubbing them rather flutteringly over the tips of his hair, making sure to cover every part.

Louis moans out loud slightly - what? It's not his fault, he just has a really sensitive scalp.

After rinsing out his thoroughly lathered locks and covering himself luxuriantly in Old Spice shower gel (it's on the shelf not in the dispenser), he rinses that off too and turns off the shower(s), padding out on to the bright white tiles and wrapping a fluffy, yes, white, towel round his waist.

The landing needs a wipe down, Louis thinks, as he steps out of the bathroom and the cold bites at his skin. The first thing he notices though is mysterious white crumbs - which is odd, of course, because Louis doesn't eat food upstairs.

But that's to ponder over later. Right now, he needs to blowdry his hair in to a proud and mighty quiff and gawp at how sexy and bangable his arse looks when it's bulging out of black jeans that need to be surgically removed.

Harry's shitting bricks. Those bricks have never been this bad, before. Whether it's because he is going to be two hours early and so this guy might still be up or because this guy is so young and so cute and so hot he is not sure. He's not sure he's sure of anything - or whether he will be ever again. But one thing he is sure about is that this van really needs to stop otherwise he will literally throw up on the passenger seat window next to him.

Perhaps El senses this from behind him, as she is now signalling for the driver to stop and sure enough, they are now in a lay-by.

The driver opens the door for him and stands behind him as Harry bends down over a bush. Harry quickly snaps, however: "I'm not going to fucking runaway on the middle of the fucking M1, am I?! Give me some space!"

Harry gets his wish, as Eleanor pulls the driver back. He does his business there and then, tears streaming down his face. But that's because he always cries when he throws up.

No - not this time.

He doesn't want to do this.

He can't do this.

There is a massive, steep, grassy hill five metres ahead of him, and if the trees below don't catch him from hitting solid ground, then. Well.

So be it.

Louis loves it. He is such an attention whore; there are bodies rutting and rocking against his own, there's always a hand on his crotch, on his chest, arms, arse, thighs - fuck, the weed is pumping round his body to the beat of the heavy sound of some Summertime Sadness remix and he thinks he is going to orgasm from the experience.

After some 90s shit comes on, Louis heads out of the crowd and blaring lights and towards the pink lit bar, where a some shirtless waiter with a spinny bow-tie on tosses his a whisky.

"That's on me, honey." He says in an overly camp voice that Louis inwardly cringes at, but he takes the whisky anyway and quickly downs it. He doesn't really like whisky, has always preferred the smooth taste of rum or a vodka. But still, he needs to drink himself in to oblivion and not much else can help him with that other than this cringey waiter and his endless supply of heavenly fluids.

"And the next one?" Louis shouts over the music, and he only just realises how fucked out his voice sounds already.

"Sure, babe." Cringe, drink, repeat. Times three.

Five.

... or maybe ten.

This is going to be a night to end all nights.

The driver had obviously sensed what Harry was going to do as he is now pulling a kicking and screaming Harry away from the hill and hurling him in to the van.

"You crafty little shit, you ain't coming out of there til we're at Donny."

"And how long's that?" Harry replies angrily.

"We're twenty minutes in to the trip, so I'd say a couple of hours and a half. Go and watch porn or something." The driver gives him one last incredulous look before moving his fat masses to the front seat, revealing Eleanor, who was obviously standing behind him the whole time.

"Sorry, Haz," she says sympathetically, which surprises Harry. They've probably exchanged ten words before in the history of ever, and now their on nickname basis. Ha.

"'T's okay. 'S'not your fault." Harry replies sulkily. El gives him one last knowing look before following the driver in to the front compartment of the van, leaving Harry in the pitch blackness. Just how he likes it.

"What time do you finish work?" Louis has to shout at the waiter, who's eyebrows perk up immediately and looks at his watch.

"Now," he suddenly says, and before Louis knows it he's being dragged off in to the pink toilets, porn-like music being played softly through the ceiling speakers.

And then he is in the cubicle, sat down on the closed toilet seat, and this guy is sucking him off. Louis doesn't want to look down, doesn't want to feel even more ashamed than he already is because this has never happened before and even though he is pretty much higher than a squirrel on an elephant he doesn't want this horrible, wrenching feeling in his chest and before he knows it he is pulling his trousers and underwear up and this stupid guys is looking up and him with stupid eyes and stupid hair.

"What the fuck?" He stands up, and Louis realises he's at least a foot shorter than this twat.

"I can't - I won't-" Louis looks up in to his eyes, to plead, but this guy isn't having it, he's being pushed up against the wall and his neck is being attacked- "Fuck - off!" With a tremendous force, Louis knees the other guy right in the balls, as he backs out of the cubicle and rushes out the toilets, rushes past the blurring lights and high drunks and pink lanterns and he is out the building.

He crumples against the brick wall there, the intense cold of the night sobering him up, as the beat of the club thumps away and Louis misses his fucking family.

He stays strong, however. With one last effort, he gets up and walks off in to the direction of his massive house, and decides he is going to make something of his life.

Harry & co pull up on a street nearby Louis' in order to avoid any suspicion whatsoever, but this mean that Harry has to talk a whole ten minutes to get to his final destination.

He could try running away - there is enough money in his and his mum and stepdad's bank accounts to let them emergrate to somewhere hot - Doncaster is not so far away from Cheshire as Harry had thought.

But no; Eleanor has to accompany him to the corner of the street to 'make sure he gets there safely'. Or because they knew he was thinking of doing a fast one.

So it's not quite pitch black, street lamps illuminate their path for most of the way, and every time one shines in Harry's face he hisses and briskly moves out of the spotlight.

And to make things worse, some jazzy shit he tried to play on the saxophone earlier is playing round and round in his head, and Harry thinks that song will be the reminder of what he does for a living.

And to make things even more worse, he was now trespassing in Louis' back garden, and was about to cross the long, twenty metre stretch of grass and tree and plant Louis' poison.

Louis stumbles across the cul-de-sac of Crate Street, which signifies the end of the road. However, Louis knows there is a narrow alleyway between two of the houses which leads on to the entrance of his own street.

Turning in to his said street, Louis starts to feel sorry for himself, and so starts to sing, "Unbreak my heart," he mutters, "say you love me again... undo this hurt you caused when you walked out the door and walked out of my FUCKING LIFE!" He cries, voice cracking, "UNCRY THESE TEARS! OH MUM, I'VE CRIED SO MANY NIGHTS!" He walks up to his front yard, sniffling quietly, "I love you mum. Come back and un-break my heart."

He unlocks his door and enters his positively warm house, before turning round and closing it behind him with a quiet thud. Louis leans forward against the door at that point, head in arms, as he softly cries those all too familiar tears, hot against his cold cheeks.

Then he remembers; he remembers what his mother had said before she left. She had said 'stiff upper lip, son, stiff upper lip'. And so, with another great effort, Louis turns round, pressing his thumbs underneath his eyes to stop anymore tears from forming.

And then flicks the switch on next to him, the very same switch that turns on the long hallway chandelier which glistens in pride and just about makes out the kitchen at the far end of the hall.

And in this case, just about makes out this tall, lanky curly boy in black clothing from head to toe, with his hands covered behind the open kettle lid and giving Louis a dumbfounded look, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.


	3. Chapter 3 - Gaga's Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaga cooks up a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took long bcos im doing gcses... please bear with me i will update loads in the summer!
> 
> two apologies:  
> 1) sorry for lack of breaks, they got deleted somehow haha so now it looks like it's all happening at once:(  
> 2) soz ahead in case i mix up my tenses.
> 
> lyl babies p.s im seeing 1d 7th june now i just need to see Gagagaga...

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit clouds all other thoughts through Harry's brain. All his training and efforts seem to have melted into a puddle around his feet as he stares at Louis across the hallway. He attempts to gather his thoughts, and he realises that the first thing that he must do is to... well... gather his thoughts.

What's the next thing to do? Harry rattles his brain and realises that Louis, frozen to the spot, is reaching out to the landline on the cabinet next to him.

Think fast , Harry thinks.

Louis freezes. There's an intruder. Fuck it, if he was in America he'd be able to shoot the bastard and be done with it. But no; evidently he isn't. He slowly reaches out his hand and grabs the receiver from the holder, fingers from his right hand latching on to the coils of telephone wire like a monkey on to a tree. He feels like he needs to cling on for dear life.

"Stay - the fuck - right where you are - or I will shoot you," Louis suddenly calls out, voice catching a number of times. He dials 999 on the handset and holds the receiver against his ear. It pauses. It rings.

Suddenly, the figure ominously steps out of the shadows of the kitchen and into the clear light from the chandelier above. His hands - very large hands - are held up either side of his head and his legs set apart. Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly, there is a small smile on his face, almost playful...

There is no doubt that he is gorgeous; there are dimples that dent his cheeks, he has a real long torso and there is a hearty harlequin hue to his optics. He has a raised eyebrow, as if saying what can you do? and for some (not-so) unknown reason Louis hangs up and places the phone back down.

"What in the name of God's Holy-fucking-arsehole is he doing? He's covered up, there's no DNA traces, he could have just set off a smoke bomb and legged it the fuck out of there!" The driver curses in Harry's name as he and Eleanor watch Harry's every move around the corner on their laptop screen, through cleverly placed and long-ranged CCTV.

"Calm down, he's a skilled and extremely clever pupil, I'm sure he knows what he's doing. Under strict rules, we are not allowed to go barging in there so any idea you might have just forget about it." Eleanor says to the big man sternly.

"So what do you think we should do? I say we ring up Cowell."

"May I remind you that I am the mission controller here and you are no more than the van driver. It's also Mister Cowell to you and if you do ring him I will make it my duty to get you sacked. Now get back to the front seat and leave me in peace." Eleanor snaps, and after giving the driver a mean exchange she turns back to the laptop and holds her hands in prayer, "come on Harry, what're you doing?"

"W-Why are you in my house?" Louis calls, a bit loudly considering this boy is only around 3 metres away.

"I'm sorry." The boy responds calmly, and much quieter, and Louis visibly slackens.

"That doesn't answer my question." Louis squints his eyes at this intruder.

"I am a robber. The robbery went wrong. I'm going to leave now." The boy says to Louis, and there's a look in his eyes... it's as if... as if he's trying to tell Louis something. "Can you promise not to call the police?"

"I - what - ?" Louis is confused. This is weird. He's having an almost civilised conversation with this intruder. "Look - get out! If I want to call the police then I will! Now get the fuck out of my house!" Louis bellows sternly, but the boy makes no change in facial expression. He looks a bit silly now; he is just standing there with his hands in the air. As if the boy read Louis' mind, his hands fall to his sides, and Louis' heart skips a beat. He's frightened. "Don't hurt me." Louis suddenly squeals, and tears sting his eyes. The intruder walks closer to him, in steady steps. His coming closer, and he is absolutely pulchritudinous.

There's something about his smell, or scent, that's warm and cosy and inviting. Louis' breathing rate calms immediately as the boy is right in front of him. For a minuscule moment, Louis thinks the intruder is going to hurt him, but then the curly-haired boy simply passes by him, right up close, opens the door and leaves.

He just leaves.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Louis bolts in and locks it and falls back against it, crumbling to the floor. His emotions overcome him as he finds himself wailing his sorrow in to his knees. "Mummy... come back... I want my mummy..."

Harry shits himself. He didn't get the job done. The cyanide is still freezing burning in his pocket. As soon as he turns a corner, he stamps on the floor and grunts, "fuck!" He's bound to get in some sort of trouble for this.

But is it the getting in trouble that's troubling him? He heard Louis' cries as he left the house and he had felt a tinge of pity and sorrow in his chest. It made him... sad. Louis' eyes were so full of fear, Harry remembers distinctly, and won't be forgetting it for a long time.

But... within the next week, the poor boy will die, as some of Cowell's officers need to cover their tracks and get rid of any secrets being spilled. What a waste of blood; what a waste of such a gorgeous boy.

Is it weird to say that Harry felt some sort of connection? Nothing cliché, it's not like there were 'fireworks when they first laid eyes on each other', but it was a very strange, empathetic connection. As if they could sympathise with one another.

"Harry, what were you thinking?" Eleanor rubs Harry's shoulder as they sit in the back of the van. The driver had snapped at Harry, but Eleanor had sorted him out easily enough and banished him to the front. They are on their way home now, driving in silence until Eleanor broke it halfway through the journey.

"I...He..." Harry manages, eyes fixated on his thoughts of Louis, and the fear, and the connection. "I couldn't do it." He whispers, and his eyes fill up with tears. "I couldn't kill him and leave him. I just couldn't." And suddenly he sobs, quick, short sobs that squeak, but Eleanor's got him and he's resting on her shoulder and she whispers softly in his ear that it's going to be alright. "Is it though? That poor boy is going to die - he deserves a break, not death! His whole family have left him-"

"You know the rules Harry." Eleanor shakes her head, eyebrows furrowed.

"Of course I do. I know the fucking rules."

"Shh... come on, calm down, think about what you're saying."

"I am. I know exactly what I'm saying." Harry's words just tumble out of his mouth, and he realises that he's digging himself a hole. "...I'm sorry."

"It's fine. It's okay." Eleanor rubs his back as Harry sits up, and she offers him a weak smile. "Look, I'll explain everything to Simon. He'll understand - no one's ever walked in on a job before."

"Really?" Harry looks up, "what about him?" he jerks a thumb towards the driver's seat.

"Oh, don't worry about him. I've got him wrapped round my little finger."

"He was so gorgeous, Zayn. I've never seen anyone so truly beautiful." Harry says lustfully to the pitch black ceiling. He and Zayn are in bed, and seeing as Harry needed comforting Zayn offered to sleep with him, and so now the Bradford boy is tucked up on Harry's side, head on his chest.

"Look, Haz, I need to tell you something."

"...and his eyes... so blue, like the oceans..." Harry drifts on.

"Harry-" Zayn tries.

"Best arse in the world-"

"Harry, for fuck sake, listen!" Zayn snaps, and judging by the silence he has Harry's undivided attention. "Thank you. Right, you need to forget about this boy. There's nothing you can do about it now, he's going to die, he's gonna get killed. The more you think about him the more you'll be upset when Eleanor tells you his body's been officially found." Another silence. "Look, Haz, I care about you so much, and that's the only reason why I'm telling you this. I - I love you, bro, and I'd hate to see you get hurt."

"Th-thanks, Zayn." Harry scoops down to kiss his head, leading the quiffed boy to squirm. "But-"

"No. Not buts, Haz, not now-"

"No, I mean- I have a plan." Harry says, and Zayn frowns.

"What kind of plan?"

"I'm going to rescue Louis."

"You're fuckin' crazy." Zayn muffles around a mouthful of toothpaste. He is pacing backwards and forwards at the end of Harry's bed in tight white underwear, and it only is it doing weird things to Harry's groin but it's also interrupting his lay-in. "I mean, if you get caught, you and your family will pay the ultimate price. Do you want that, Harry? Do you want that on your conscience?"

"NO!" Harry groans loudly so Zayn halts. "You haven't even heard what I've got to say!"

"Because it's fucking impossible!" Zayn yells, and a splodge of toothpaste falls out his mouth.

"That's disgusting."

"'ock off." Zayn muffles once more as he disappears in to the bathroom. Harry hears an overemphasised spitting noise, a tap being turned on and then Zayn gargling and spitting out. Zayn comes in a moment later, patting his face dry with a white towel and he looks at Harry sympathetically, sitting on his bed. "Mate."

"What?"

"I worry about you." He says softly, and Harry's insides turn to mush.

"You don't need to." He says anyway, and Zayn looks unimpressed.

"Well, obviously I do if you're planning to do this. You'd have to work it out really well." Zayn says, and then Harry looks brightly at him. The boy from Bradford groans. Groans fondly, though. "Go on, then, tell me the plan."

"Oh, Zaynie!" Harry squeals with delight as he jumps out of bed and on to Zayn, both collapsing on the other side of the bed.

"First, I play the sympathy card." Harry says, drinking black tea. With a sugar.

"How do you mean?" Zayn asks, before digging his teeth into a bacon roll. They are at the back on the cantine, and after Harry gave Liam a signal for some peace, their other friends stayed where they usually sat. Harry had reassured Liam tht everything was fine, though.

"Well, I know that Eleanor has a soft spot for me."

"She fancies you."

"Whatever, Zayn. But yeah, if I tell her to keep me posted on when they're leaving, et cetera, I can easily retrieve information and shit like that." Harry sips his tea proudly.

"How're you gonna get there?"

"Um. I hadn't thought about that one..."

"What're you gonna do once you're there? Tell him everything?" Zayn persists after swallowing.

"I - er-"

"What if you get caught? Do you know what will happen?"

"Yes, Zayn, I know full well what will happen." The thought of his family getting hurt haunts Harry. "I'll have to think about it."

"Hm. Well you only have around a week."

Little did Harry and Zayn know, a certain Miss Calder was listening to their every word from a nearby camera.

Zayn is Harry's best friend, and Harry likes to think it works the other way round. They are going through this whole Eradicate! thing together, and if anything it's made them strong.

Zayn's not gay; Harry knows that. Zayn's more open-minded. 'Hetero-flexible', he likes to say. Nonetheless, they often get each other off due to lack of female attention - boyfriends and girlfriends aren't allowed, for fear that they would get married and that would mean never forgetting Eradicate! because they would be reminders to each other.

That's another thing about Eradicate! that pissed Harry off: you had to forget about and leave your friends when you left.

But yeah, him and Zayn getting each other off had become more of a recent thing, lately. It would never be anything serious, though - a handjob or sometimes blowjob, occasionally grinding. It never was anything more than that. It normally happened at night time, after a long day of doing nothing. Like tonight...

Settled in to bed. Harry turns over to Zayn's bed's direction. "Zaynie."

"Yeah?"

"Can you sleep with me?"

"Sure, babe." And then Harry hears a faint creaking of bed springs before Zayn is clambering into bed next to him. Harry sprawls out all over him and lays his head on Zayn's chest. "You alright?"

"Yeah." Harry smiles. "You?"

"Yeah." Zayn echoes. "I'm fine."

"Good."

A few minutes pass before Zayn's breathing pattern regulates and it calms Harry. But the devious curley-haired boy has ulterior motives.

His hand tentatively moves up from the bed and on to Zayn's well-ab'd torso softly scratching the skin there and moving his way down.

"No, Haz, I wanna sleep." Zayn shakes his head.

"I don't." Harry replies, and his fingertips gently tuck into the waistband of Zayn's underwear and rub over his fuzzy crotch hair.

"Please..."

"Please what?" Harry tries to manipulate Zayn by pushing his hand a bit further in and rubbing the backs of his fingers against the start of Zayn's length.

"Touch me..."

"Mhm..."

Harry's currently boring/entertaining himself by sitting through some A-level Chemistry class which he has sat through many times before, but the lack of things to do on the site often leads him to places like this.

He is sitting next to Gaga, who is drawing some pen tattoo on the back of her hand and forearm. Lately, she's become a bit of a pariah. People judge her badly because she's done twice as many jobs as anyone else, but they don't know the whole story, so what right do they have to judge? Harry feels sorry for her.

"Alright, babe?" Harry murmurs to her, and then sees the drawing on her hand, inwardly gasping - it looks hyper-realistic, like a real tidal wave. "Wow, that's amazing!"

"Thanks, Harry." She says in her rounded American accent. "I only got a D in art."

"That's a bit fucked up. But - how come you're here? You were supposed to get all A*s."

"I'm different. I did get all A*s. Except art. The reason why I got a D in art is because I spent the whole two years on one painting, which I got full marks for, but that was a minuscule section of the whole thing... it's in a gallery in London now." She smiles, and it's lovely. Brightening; Harry has never seen her smile before.

"That's... that's amazing," Harry says, thoroughly shocked.

"They - Cowell and that lot - told me that I nearly got accepted into a special campus. I cried and cried and begged them to give me a chance. Boy, do I fuckin' regret it. I'm a fuckin' nutcase in here, or so it seems," Gaga relents, eyes focused on the pen furiously working on her arm. Harry stares, fascinated, "they all think I'm fuckin' crazy. Seriously, I only do more of these fuckin' jobs than everyone else because my grandparents organised the whole fuckin' Great Train Robbery."

"That was over fifty years ago..." Harry says softly, sympathetically.

"Tell me about it. They think just 'cause my relatives are criminal masterminds it means that I am too. Well I hate it. I fuckin' hate it." The tidal wave on Gaga's hand looks furious and ferocious, as if it changes with her mood. Harry thinks it's magic.

"We'll get the fuck out of here eventually," Harry whispers to her, and the teacher barks from the front, "shut up, Styles."

Gaga peaks her head up for the first time. Harry sees that she has amazing cheekbones and a jawline, and her eyes are sapphire blue - like Louis'.

Louis Tomlinson.

"Shut the fuck up, Manison." Gaga yells at the teacher. Harry actuall does gasp this time. But the teacher simply bows his head and turns back round to the whiteboard, lecturing the rest of the 20-strong class.

"If I said that, then I...-"

"I have them all wrapped round my fuckin' pinky finger. They all love me and my shitty parents agree with the whole thing. Even invested in them." Gaga tells a flabbergasted Harry. Harry thinks he likes this girl a lot; and if she different fingers in all these pies then she could come in real handy. "What're you thinkin' about?" Gaga looks into Harry's eyes, and they exchange... things. Harry opens his mouth, but Gaga grabs his wrist as if to stop him, "let's take this somewhere else." She pulls on his wrist and then they are leaving the classroom, out the door and into the air conditioned corridor. Harry feels a pleasant buzz; it was stuffy and horrible in that classroom, and someone had had BO.

Gaga charges through the corridor with a hand attached to Harry's wrist. Once again, Harry is fascinated. Gaga is not wearing any shoes, and her long, smooth looking peroxide hair swishes around in the conditioned corridor, falling down to her lower back. She is wearing the prettiest dress and it's floral and comes down a couple of inches above the knee.

Next thing he knows, Harry is being pushed inside a dark, dank room, and Gaga closes the door behind them after checking to see if the coast was clear. She turns the light on, and Harry sees they are in a broom cupboard; a large one. It is so large Harry can't actually see the end because of all the clutter piled up. There is a loud drip of water and Harry feels a chill jar up his spine.

"This," Gaga whispers, "is the only place in the whole of campus that doesn't have a camera. And if we whisper, no one can hear us." As she speaks, she kicks a dusty mattress to the bottom of the door, preventing any cracks of light escaping.

"Why do we need to be here?"

"Because you need to tell me what you need to say."

Harry's told her everything he told Zayn yesterday morning. She nods her way through it, smiling through Harry's description of Louis.

"That's a fuckin' shit plan." She tells Harry after he finishes, and Harry frowns with a pout dejectedly, like sulking child. "I tell you what we're gonna do, we're gonna get Lena-"

"-Eleanor-"

"-Eleanor on side, she sounds like a right pushover, then what we're gonna do is we'll get her to smuggle us into her van and drive with them to Doncaster." She gasps, as if shocked by her own brilliance.

"But... we would have to get out first otherwise they'd get to him before we did..." Harry figures. Gaga's grin fades.

"Shit." A pause.

"The simple thing to do would be to get a relative to drive us there and rescue him, but there is CCTV planted all round out and inside his house, so it's too risky. And plus if the relative gets caught..."

"Yeah. Nasty shit. Happened to my uncle." Another pause. "Hang on. If I got daddy to do it, to drive us there? Would that work?"

"Well, I dunno, isn't he like friends with Simon?"

"No, he fuckin' hates his guts. The only reason he invested and funds some of their shit is so they kiss my arse and won't lay a fuckin' finger on me."

"Okay... so would he do it? What would happen if he got caught?" Harry frowns.

"At the most, he'd get fined, blackmailed into increasing his cash flow. Daddy owns twenty percent, Simon the other eighty so really daddy gets a say in how he gets punished."

"Shit, I didn't realise it was that much." Harry gasps. Again.

"You didn't hear it from me. But yeah, if daddy hacks into the fuckin' system under an anomaly then he can find out where the security cameras are placed and hire some experts to eliminate them by giving them the coordinates..."

"That in-fucking-genious." Harry is flabbergasted. This girl is a saviour, hero, genius.

"I know, I'm a god. But daddy... he's gonna need a lot of persuading."

"I'll help." Harry smiles, but Gaga grabs his wrist again.

"NO! Leave this with me. If anyone finds out you got anything to do with this, you'd get your arse caned. Harry, promise me you'll only tell Zayn about this? I'm much higher up than you, baby, so you're more important in my eyes." Gaga says, and there is passion in her voice. "Harry, promise me you won't spill!"

"I..." Harry says. He feels guilty. He's unloaded his deepest darkest secrets on to this poor girl and she is taking over. "Okay. For you, Gaga."

"Good." Gaga flings her arms around Harry and pulls him in for a tight hug. Harry thinks she smells like coconuts and fresh shampoo.

"Not so fast." The door barges open and the mattress goes flying. Eleanor is standing at the doorway in a fighter stance. She relaxes. "I know all about your plan. Now come with me. You're both gonna get taught a lesson you'll never forget."


End file.
